I walk through quiet streets at dusk, where shadows stretch like thoughts I never say. The wind carries pieces of yesterday, soft as dust on forgotten shelves. I keep moving, not because I know where to go, but because stopping feels heavier than the road. Lights flicker in distant windows, each one holding a story I will never live. Still, there is a strange comfort in being unknown, in drifting like a cloud with no promise of rain. Maybe tomorrow will ask for more than silence, or maybe it will echo just the same. Until then, I hold onto small things: a passing smile, a song half remembered, the rhythm of my own breath. It is enough for now, enough to keep me here, between what was and what could still begin. In this quiet space, I learn how to exist without needing to be seen, and somehow that feels like a beginning, not an ending at all, truly now.